A heavy silver SUV had suddenly cut off the black sedan on the bridge exit ramp.

The sedan swerved, its tires screeching against the wet asphalt as the SUV forced it to the shoulder.

Our cab driver took the exit into Brooklyn, speeding down the quieter, darker side streets.

“We’re almost there,” I told Benjamin.

“Good,” he said.

“I am sending a car to bring you to a safe house tomorrow morning.”

“Jonathan will want to see you.”

“Be careful, Mariana.”

The call ended.

The cab pulled up to the curb outside my brick studio building.

The rain was pouring down in sheets, flooding the gutters.

I paid the driver and grabbed the twins, shielding them with my arms.

We ran through the cold downpour to the front door.

My hands shook so badly I could barely get the key into the brass lock.

Once inside, I locked the heavy deadbolt and leaned my back against the cold wood.

The hallway was dark, smelling of damp dust and old floorboards.

I carried the twins upstairs to our loft apartment, my chest tight with anxiety.